(Dec. 12) Koh Phi Phi (pronounced “Pee Pee“) is a small island about a 2 hour ferry ride from Phuket. What Disneyland is to 6 year olds, Phi Phi is to a slightly older population. There’s no Donald or Goofy here, and no rides, but if you are, let’s say, 25, all you want is right here. The village is a grid richly crowded with open-air bars with small tables and chairs spilling out onto the “street.” Internet cafes, t-shirt shops, dive shops, massage venues, and an amazing array of eateries fight for your attention. It is an assault on your senses, but not an unpleasant one. As you make your way up the congested walkways, you are invited to all manner of evening parties and shows. All that’s missing is a carnival barker. The streets -- some paved, some not -- give the appearance that Koh Phi Phi is crowded. But, I believe this impression is created only because the walkways -- there are no cars here -- are narrow forcing whoever’s here to share limited walking space. The many locals who try to navigate this maze on bikes are, fittingly, candidates for cirque de soleil. They make 90 degree turns on a dime, routinely stop motionless while remaining upright and somehow (mostly) avoid pedestrians with magical consistency even though those on foot always seem mere centimeters from their front wheels. This task is complicated by the steady infusion of small children, running and biking with no apparent pattern, often without an adult in view. Cyclists gamely blurt out “beep beep” as they make their way through as if fair notice has been given. Really, we are all players in a life-sized video game here.
If there were a flag for Phi Phi it would most certainly feature a large flip flop since that is all you see here. They are not just ubiquitous; they are universal. Ok, ok I did see a couple of guys in worn out running shoes and one eastern european dude wearing combat boots, but these were very much the exception.
Along the alleyways, there is almost always the strains of some music, but not the minor chords of thai music as you might expect. Rather, from somewhere, you hear the voices of Cat Stevens, Bob Marley and Janice Joplin. It’s weird, but somehow it fits. This theme picks up at the Millie and Tia Sunflower Beach Bar on the sand on the other side of the island. It doesn't take too much imagination to picture this place in Key West, or maybe San Diego. You take a seat at one of the curved carved tables facing the ocean, Singha beer in hand, awaiting the sunset. Stray cats jump up on your table. The longboats are now dormant providing a picture postcard foreground for the sunset that is soon to appear painting the sky in the reddest reds and the bluest blues. The ambient music is all acoustic, naturally. My camera does not even remotely do justice to all this.
This is a beer commercial, right?
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Paradise Lost
(Dec. 10) There are few things as sweet as being reminded of a wonderful, but long ago, experience. Sometimes this is triggered by smells (maybe the cooking of some cherished comfort food), or sounds (like hearing a song that once had great meaning). But, most often, and most powerfully, the sensation is the greatest when you return to a place that holds some of your warmest memories. And, so it was yesterday with Lily and me. We found ourselves in the same exact spot we had not seen for 30 years: Patong Beach in Phuket, Thailand.
The interesting thing, I think, about these encounters is trying to resist re-living the experience since, after all, so many things have changed. You can “re-acquaint” but you cannot “re-live.” Here, in Phuket, we knew things would be different. But, would it matter? What was once a relatively undiscovered backwater unknown to most of the western world, was now a bustling, crowded destination resort polka-dotted by high rises and replete with wave upon wave of European tourists, tattoo parlors, and the ubiquitous t-shirt shops. Hello civilization; goodbye paradise. This was a far cry from the place we once knew that promised on the beach bungalows for $6 a night and grilled fresh fish dinners for $3. But, when you looked seaward, out into the Andaman Sea, we could see what we loved so much: fluffy white sand, water as warm as a bath, and a succession of changing tints of blue -- like a blue rainbow -- from almost clear to turquoise to the deepest navy. The crescent-shaped bay was still guarded by green hills diving down to the shoreline. And, the hot sun served as an open invitation to spend the day submerged in that wonderful water.
We returned to the place that we had once stayed, Phuket Cabanas, now completely transformed into an upscale and beautiful hotel, and had cocktails at sunset and a fabulous alfresco Thai dinner. The starter was a soup so beautifully aromatic it could do well in a perfume competition. The catch? It was laced with paralyzingly hot chilies that, as they say, cures what ails you. Not for the timid, this soup. What followed was everything from red snapper to chicken to shrimp to a seafood salad of shrimp, octopus and ginger. All of it fabulously delicious.
So, it wasn’t the old Phuket. So what? We're not the old Lily and Jeff either.
The interesting thing, I think, about these encounters is trying to resist re-living the experience since, after all, so many things have changed. You can “re-acquaint” but you cannot “re-live.” Here, in Phuket, we knew things would be different. But, would it matter? What was once a relatively undiscovered backwater unknown to most of the western world, was now a bustling, crowded destination resort polka-dotted by high rises and replete with wave upon wave of European tourists, tattoo parlors, and the ubiquitous t-shirt shops. Hello civilization; goodbye paradise. This was a far cry from the place we once knew that promised on the beach bungalows for $6 a night and grilled fresh fish dinners for $3. But, when you looked seaward, out into the Andaman Sea, we could see what we loved so much: fluffy white sand, water as warm as a bath, and a succession of changing tints of blue -- like a blue rainbow -- from almost clear to turquoise to the deepest navy. The crescent-shaped bay was still guarded by green hills diving down to the shoreline. And, the hot sun served as an open invitation to spend the day submerged in that wonderful water.
We returned to the place that we had once stayed, Phuket Cabanas, now completely transformed into an upscale and beautiful hotel, and had cocktails at sunset and a fabulous alfresco Thai dinner. The starter was a soup so beautifully aromatic it could do well in a perfume competition. The catch? It was laced with paralyzingly hot chilies that, as they say, cures what ails you. Not for the timid, this soup. What followed was everything from red snapper to chicken to shrimp to a seafood salad of shrimp, octopus and ginger. All of it fabulously delicious.
So, it wasn’t the old Phuket. So what? We're not the old Lily and Jeff either.
When Are We?
(Dec. 9, although possibly Dec. 8 or 10) Lily and I have had our fannies firmly planted in airline seats for 22 hours today. Count ‘em: 22 -- Charleston to Dulles (1 hour), Dulles to Tokyo (13½ hours), Tokyo to Singapore (7½ hours). Trust me, our fannies are not pleased with this arrangement, and our backs aren’t entirely thrilled either. Like so many others, we have experienced this before -- these long trips -- which tells you how strong the pull is of our chosen destination that we would endure this numbing, voluntary incarceration. We mentally wave out our window at Ontario, the Yukon, the Northern Slopes of Alaska, the Aleutians, Vladivostok, Okinawa, Guam, and Borneo. From 35,000 feet, it’s all the same. We not only endure, but look forward to, the airline’s less than elegant attempts at food service since, if nothing else, it provides a break in the otherwise totally stalled and bland action of air travel.
It is a matter of some hilarity that we attempt, futilely, to figure out what time it is, which is, of course, impossible. Time is a moving target up here. Do we look at our watches and say to ourselves it’s 5 p.m. when that’s eastern standard time, or do we keep track of the ever-changing time zones below? Like the intrepid, but confused, heroes in “Lost,” it is far better not to ask “where are we?,” but rather “when are we?”
Walking the aisles at “night” in our jumbo jet, it is amusing to see how others meet the challenge. There are, of course, the stubborn few with open books or laptops, and others watching, glazed over, their sixth movie. Mostly, folks try -- vainly, I believe -- to find a position where sleep will provide a much needed escape from this seemingly endless monotony. You have your folks with sleep masks, face masks, and many others with blankets pulled over their heads. Others appear as comfortable as one might when bracing for a head-on collision, but with their eyes closed, as if by jamming their eyelids shut they can force unconsciousness upon themselves. Some say you should set your watch to that of your destination and start adjusting to that when you take your seat. Yeah, good luck with that.
Oh, the joy! After a 6 hour layover in Singapore, we head out in the early a.m. again, only this time for another multi-hour aerial hike, this time to Phuket.
I’m thinking even Cary Grant would look a bit disheveled after this, don’t you?
It is a matter of some hilarity that we attempt, futilely, to figure out what time it is, which is, of course, impossible. Time is a moving target up here. Do we look at our watches and say to ourselves it’s 5 p.m. when that’s eastern standard time, or do we keep track of the ever-changing time zones below? Like the intrepid, but confused, heroes in “Lost,” it is far better not to ask “where are we?,” but rather “when are we?”
Walking the aisles at “night” in our jumbo jet, it is amusing to see how others meet the challenge. There are, of course, the stubborn few with open books or laptops, and others watching, glazed over, their sixth movie. Mostly, folks try -- vainly, I believe -- to find a position where sleep will provide a much needed escape from this seemingly endless monotony. You have your folks with sleep masks, face masks, and many others with blankets pulled over their heads. Others appear as comfortable as one might when bracing for a head-on collision, but with their eyes closed, as if by jamming their eyelids shut they can force unconsciousness upon themselves. Some say you should set your watch to that of your destination and start adjusting to that when you take your seat. Yeah, good luck with that.
Oh, the joy! After a 6 hour layover in Singapore, we head out in the early a.m. again, only this time for another multi-hour aerial hike, this time to Phuket.
I’m thinking even Cary Grant would look a bit disheveled after this, don’t you?
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
The Last Man on Earth (or so it seemed)
Around these parts, once the last suggestion of summer leaves for more southern climes, folks around here perform an exodus as if they were fully expecting an imminent, winter-long convention of mastodons and t-rex at Wild Dunes. To say this place becomes a ghost town is, in truth, doing a disservice to ghosts because this place would make even ghosts feel a tad lonely. We are told that one-quarter of property owners live here full-time, but I’m convinced either that this is a grotesque overstatement or these guys are most comfortable riding out winter in their basements, far from human view, madly at work on the great American novel or, perhaps, a challenging video game.
So -- tonight, as Mojo and I took our evening constitutional, I was struck by the notion that it would not be such a reach to play the role as last man on planet earth. We wandered empty street after empty street, and as the twilight gave way to darkness, I was reminded again how resoundingly black it gets here with street lights appearing maybe once every half mile. We ventured down to the ocean because from a block away you could hear the waves crashing, and this was most certainly worth a view. It was the kind of sound that made you think that something important was happening there. There was but one soul on the beach, a truly forlorn looking cyclist leaning into the wind, which was now just a bit shy of furious. He could not have been enjoying himself. Otherwise, the expanse was free of any life form. Just the waves, the sand, the full moon and Mojo and me. The day had played out in a way that invited this air of isolation as the weather gurus spoke of high winds, pounding rain, flooding, severe thunderstorms, and even some tornado warnings. It was a day best suited to browsing Amazon.com in search of a well-priced ark.
While the streets were empty, there were actually a few cars that ventured by, their lights an annoying distraction from my last man on earth fantasies. An intrusion, really. May I say that Mojo could not have been more pleased? Or, that he could not have been more oblivious to the encroaching darkness which made him all but invisible. As usual, he pranced through our entire human-free walk, leash firmly planted in his mouth as if to make sure I understood that it was he, not I, who was taking the other for a walk.
As serene and uncomplicated as this walk was, I would not wish for this experience every night. I am far too social for that. I enjoy the repartee with total strangers, some with dogs, some without. It doesn’t matter.
I do not want to be the last man standing, thank you very much.
So -- tonight, as Mojo and I took our evening constitutional, I was struck by the notion that it would not be such a reach to play the role as last man on planet earth. We wandered empty street after empty street, and as the twilight gave way to darkness, I was reminded again how resoundingly black it gets here with street lights appearing maybe once every half mile. We ventured down to the ocean because from a block away you could hear the waves crashing, and this was most certainly worth a view. It was the kind of sound that made you think that something important was happening there. There was but one soul on the beach, a truly forlorn looking cyclist leaning into the wind, which was now just a bit shy of furious. He could not have been enjoying himself. Otherwise, the expanse was free of any life form. Just the waves, the sand, the full moon and Mojo and me. The day had played out in a way that invited this air of isolation as the weather gurus spoke of high winds, pounding rain, flooding, severe thunderstorms, and even some tornado warnings. It was a day best suited to browsing Amazon.com in search of a well-priced ark.
While the streets were empty, there were actually a few cars that ventured by, their lights an annoying distraction from my last man on earth fantasies. An intrusion, really. May I say that Mojo could not have been more pleased? Or, that he could not have been more oblivious to the encroaching darkness which made him all but invisible. As usual, he pranced through our entire human-free walk, leash firmly planted in his mouth as if to make sure I understood that it was he, not I, who was taking the other for a walk.
As serene and uncomplicated as this walk was, I would not wish for this experience every night. I am far too social for that. I enjoy the repartee with total strangers, some with dogs, some without. It doesn’t matter.
I do not want to be the last man standing, thank you very much.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
A New York Moment
We spent the weekend in New York and it was filled with the sensations you would want in such a visit: lots of bagels and lox, a smashing performance by Hugh Jackman and Daniel Craig in “A Steady Rain,” French food, Cuban food, Italian food, and wonderfully visual (and tasty) jaunts through Soho and Chelsea. Through it all, you could not help but be so impressed by the diversity, energy, and sheer numbers of persons out on the streets soaking up all things New York. It truly is an amazing place. And, sharing it with our friends Maggie, Vernon, Leslie, Tom and Ellen only enhanced the pleasure.
While all of this sensory stimulation was exactly what we were looking for, I was not prepared for what appeared to be an inconsequential turn on Sunday. We had just parted company with our friends, Vernon and Leslie, and were headed over to Maggie’s office near Bryant Park. As we headed up Broadway, I mentioned how a thousand years ago, my father’s business was located at 1412 Broadway, on the corner of 39th Street. We decided to do a “drive-by” so I could peek into the lobby of the place that had once in my life been a very familiar haunt since it was not only my father’s place of business, but a place where I had worked a few summers as a messenger boy in my early teens.
We tried the front doors of the building but they were all locked….except one. We entered the lobby. Some of those old memories started reeling through my mind. At the elevator bank was the guard, a young fellow named Muhammad. I introduced myself and, when I told him how I worked there a half century ago, he leaned back, eyes widened, and looked at me as though he was talking to a living Civil War hero. I told him how way back then the elevators had human operators -- old guys who would spit on the floor if they could get away with it, and grumpy. When I asked Muhammad if we could take a peek at the old place -- up in the rooftop offices on the 25th floor -- he said that would not be permitted. But, a few moments later, he relented -- perhaps caught up in the moment. He locked the sole open door to the building and took us up the one elevator that went to the roof.
We emerged and there it was -- the old site of Victory Studios, Inc., the business that had paid for our family home, our college educations and the food on our table. Of course, the old business was long gone, now replaced by a beauty supply house. But, interestingly, a peek inside the door revealed essentially the same layout as the one I had known so many years ago. And, even better, there was actually someone working in there who spotted us and generously let us in to look around.
How weird. Now, all the old memories came flooding back. I noted the reception area where Helen, my father’s old secretary, sat. To the right and rear was the space where the designers worked, punching out their designs for sale to the garment district’s fabric firms. Then, the showroom where Oscar, Vic, and Paul would ply their skills in selling those designs. And, in the rear left, my father’s office. I walked in there and was thrilled and moved. It had all been so very long ago.
What I didn’t tell Muhammad was that so many years ago, I used to go out on the roof and look down on what was then the old site of the Metropolitan Opera House. Every now and then, they would host a posh roof top event at the Met -- an afternoon cocktail party for the cognoscenti of the city. My adolescent urges led me to make hundreds of paper airplanes with droll messages inscribed on them, like “I see what you’re doing” or, “what are you drinking anyway?” I would toss these airborne missives off in droves hoping that just one would sail amid the swirling air currents above Broadway and land across the street on the rooftop garden many stories below. And, in rare but wonderful moments, a plane would land among the partyers who would cast semi-frantic glances skyward, aghast that they were being spied upon.
It doesn’t get much better than that.
While all of this sensory stimulation was exactly what we were looking for, I was not prepared for what appeared to be an inconsequential turn on Sunday. We had just parted company with our friends, Vernon and Leslie, and were headed over to Maggie’s office near Bryant Park. As we headed up Broadway, I mentioned how a thousand years ago, my father’s business was located at 1412 Broadway, on the corner of 39th Street. We decided to do a “drive-by” so I could peek into the lobby of the place that had once in my life been a very familiar haunt since it was not only my father’s place of business, but a place where I had worked a few summers as a messenger boy in my early teens.
We tried the front doors of the building but they were all locked….except one. We entered the lobby. Some of those old memories started reeling through my mind. At the elevator bank was the guard, a young fellow named Muhammad. I introduced myself and, when I told him how I worked there a half century ago, he leaned back, eyes widened, and looked at me as though he was talking to a living Civil War hero. I told him how way back then the elevators had human operators -- old guys who would spit on the floor if they could get away with it, and grumpy. When I asked Muhammad if we could take a peek at the old place -- up in the rooftop offices on the 25th floor -- he said that would not be permitted. But, a few moments later, he relented -- perhaps caught up in the moment. He locked the sole open door to the building and took us up the one elevator that went to the roof.
We emerged and there it was -- the old site of Victory Studios, Inc., the business that had paid for our family home, our college educations and the food on our table. Of course, the old business was long gone, now replaced by a beauty supply house. But, interestingly, a peek inside the door revealed essentially the same layout as the one I had known so many years ago. And, even better, there was actually someone working in there who spotted us and generously let us in to look around.
How weird. Now, all the old memories came flooding back. I noted the reception area where Helen, my father’s old secretary, sat. To the right and rear was the space where the designers worked, punching out their designs for sale to the garment district’s fabric firms. Then, the showroom where Oscar, Vic, and Paul would ply their skills in selling those designs. And, in the rear left, my father’s office. I walked in there and was thrilled and moved. It had all been so very long ago.
What I didn’t tell Muhammad was that so many years ago, I used to go out on the roof and look down on what was then the old site of the Metropolitan Opera House. Every now and then, they would host a posh roof top event at the Met -- an afternoon cocktail party for the cognoscenti of the city. My adolescent urges led me to make hundreds of paper airplanes with droll messages inscribed on them, like “I see what you’re doing” or, “what are you drinking anyway?” I would toss these airborne missives off in droves hoping that just one would sail amid the swirling air currents above Broadway and land across the street on the rooftop garden many stories below. And, in rare but wonderful moments, a plane would land among the partyers who would cast semi-frantic glances skyward, aghast that they were being spied upon.
It doesn’t get much better than that.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
All Politics is Local, Right?
Health care reform wasn’t on the table. Neither were troop levels in Afghanistan. Ditto for global warming. Other, more weighty, matters were in the forefront. Like, where to put the next cross walk. And, whether speed limits on local streets should be uniform. And, whether rental property signs announcing to renters rules on maximum occupancy should be conspicuously posted within 15 feet of the front door. And, most importantly to me, the issue of whether dogs might be allowed more off-leash time on the beach during the off-season. Such were the issues du jour for the intrepid members of the Isle of Palms City Council last night. For me, my first glimpse into the local political arena, and judging from the healthy crowd in the hearing room, I knew I was not alone in my intense interest in something that would be of absolutely no consequence anywhere else on planet earth.
The councilmen, mostly white men with a smattering of women, plodded on trying to muster as much dignity as they could to offset the impossibly trivial matters they believed ruled their personal universes. Mostly, they wore suits -- a brave gesture in the overheated hearing room. Their body language was worth noting as well. Like the frustrated guy who never opened his mouth while all around him others were flapping theirs. Finally, in what I sensed was a spontaneous outburst to show he was a player to be reckoned with, his remarks were greeted by vacant stares from the semi-circular panel as if they were thinking, “Did he really say that?”
The measure on speed limits was tabled for want of more research on the matter. Why am I thinking the Brookings Institution will not be invited to opine on this one? The measure on posting maximum occupancy signs in rental properties was met with thinly veiled sarcasm by one Council guy who wondered whether the police ought to be fitted with new belts that would accommodate a tape measure so they could get into the business of measuring whether the signs were, in fact, posted within 15 feet of the front door. And, oh yes, the Council decided unanimously to approve a sole source contract to a guy who does the fireworks show for the July 4th celebration. What? Why? I’m thinking there may be an extra firecracker in these guys’ stocking this Christmas, if you get my drift.
And, the dog measure? Passed in a breeze. “Island friendly, “ they called it.
As for my future at local political events, I’m sensing a possible write-in campaign for me: "Golland for City Council. Maybe not the sharpest tool in the shed, but a guy who's likely to amuse us."
Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?
The councilmen, mostly white men with a smattering of women, plodded on trying to muster as much dignity as they could to offset the impossibly trivial matters they believed ruled their personal universes. Mostly, they wore suits -- a brave gesture in the overheated hearing room. Their body language was worth noting as well. Like the frustrated guy who never opened his mouth while all around him others were flapping theirs. Finally, in what I sensed was a spontaneous outburst to show he was a player to be reckoned with, his remarks were greeted by vacant stares from the semi-circular panel as if they were thinking, “Did he really say that?”
The measure on speed limits was tabled for want of more research on the matter. Why am I thinking the Brookings Institution will not be invited to opine on this one? The measure on posting maximum occupancy signs in rental properties was met with thinly veiled sarcasm by one Council guy who wondered whether the police ought to be fitted with new belts that would accommodate a tape measure so they could get into the business of measuring whether the signs were, in fact, posted within 15 feet of the front door. And, oh yes, the Council decided unanimously to approve a sole source contract to a guy who does the fireworks show for the July 4th celebration. What? Why? I’m thinking there may be an extra firecracker in these guys’ stocking this Christmas, if you get my drift.
And, the dog measure? Passed in a breeze. “Island friendly, “ they called it.
As for my future at local political events, I’m sensing a possible write-in campaign for me: "Golland for City Council. Maybe not the sharpest tool in the shed, but a guy who's likely to amuse us."
Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?
Monday, October 5, 2009
Yes, Mojo, They Call This Rain
I slept in today. This can mean only one thing: it’s raining. This is eventful on the Isle of Palms where rain seems to come as seldom as snow no matter how hard it may be raining inland. Something about the prevailing winds and ocean currents -- don’t ask. For only the second time in about four months I did not pop out of bed at 7 a.m. so that Mojo and I could get to the beach for our early morning romp. How strange to turn over. Mojo, to his undying credit, was similarly hypnotized by the rain as he slept in his usual fashion - on his back, legs wide and spread in the air in a pose that suggests nothing short of complete surrender to Morpheus. Getting up at 8:30, which normally almost feels like lunch time to me, I felt not only the moist air, but the chill too. This is not good news. I know it’s October, but in these parts there’s plenty of “summer” left and I am not done with that season just yet. When I had completed drying off all the rain that had come through the windows, I found myself reaching for long pants and socks -- each for the first time in five months. And, a fleece! So depressing.
Soon, however, I would learn that these new climatic conditions could teach me new skills. Like how to balance an umbrella, a leash with a diabolically energetic dog at the far end, a cup of coffee, and a bag of dog poop -- all in a driving rain. This will take some practice if this morning’s performance is any indicator. Mojo’s penchant for diving between my legs as we walk caused me a couple of drops of both umbrella and poop bag. Not a pretty picture. There was no one in the streets, though. No witnesses. There aren’t that many folks here at this stage of the season, and the rain certainly provided no incentive to venture outdoors. Wimps.
The downside of all this? As we returned, and Mojo inhaled his breakfast, he wasted not one moment in finding one of his favorite toys inviting me to chase him to wrest it away from him. It was the least I could do since the little guy was deprived of his normally exhausting expenditure of energy at the beach. And, so we spent our morning. Mojo, head cocked in a playful attempt at gamesmanship, ran laps through the house as I gamely (and futilely) chased him. Maybe I should wear my running shoes when I do this.
We’re going to the beach tomorrow no matter what.
Soon, however, I would learn that these new climatic conditions could teach me new skills. Like how to balance an umbrella, a leash with a diabolically energetic dog at the far end, a cup of coffee, and a bag of dog poop -- all in a driving rain. This will take some practice if this morning’s performance is any indicator. Mojo’s penchant for diving between my legs as we walk caused me a couple of drops of both umbrella and poop bag. Not a pretty picture. There was no one in the streets, though. No witnesses. There aren’t that many folks here at this stage of the season, and the rain certainly provided no incentive to venture outdoors. Wimps.
The downside of all this? As we returned, and Mojo inhaled his breakfast, he wasted not one moment in finding one of his favorite toys inviting me to chase him to wrest it away from him. It was the least I could do since the little guy was deprived of his normally exhausting expenditure of energy at the beach. And, so we spent our morning. Mojo, head cocked in a playful attempt at gamesmanship, ran laps through the house as I gamely (and futilely) chased him. Maybe I should wear my running shoes when I do this.
We’re going to the beach tomorrow no matter what.
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